John Carter and the Princess of Barsoom
by M. Handy
Summary: The Civil War left John Carter questioning the purpose of his life. Little did he know that a chance escape into an Arizona cave and the secrets it held would lead him to an adventure so impossible it would defy imagination. Through loss of friends, meeting new allies, and a love he would chase across a whole planet, John received once simple choice: Find himself or die.
1. Chapter 1

John Carter and the Princess of Barsoom

By: Edgar Rice Burroughs and Matthew Handy

Chapter 1: On the Arizona Hills

He was an old man by all accounts, possibly a hundred. Possibly more. The weight of those years told on him at times, especially when he turned his mind to the past. Not that one could tell by outward appearances. So far as he could recollect he had always been able to pass for a man of about thirty, nor did he remember a father dandling him on his knee.

Yet the old soldier knew mortality all too well. He had seen its truth time and time again. And though he seemed to live forever, John Carter of Virginia never doubted his own time would come, the day he would fight his last battle.

The close of the Civil War found him the owner of several hundred thousand Confederate dollars and a captain's commission in the cavalry arm of an army which no longer existed; the servant of a state which had vanished alongside the hopes of the South. Masterless, penniless, and with his only means of livelihood gone, he was glad when a letter arrived from Captain James K. Powell of Richmond.

So many friends had fallen in battle, the victims of war proper helped on by starvation, accident, and disease. After the horrors Carter witnessed, an invitation to head southwest and attempt to retrieve his fallen fortunes scrabbling in the clay of Arizona was too much a gift horse to refuse.

He accepted. Perhaps it was a sort of penance. Months of hard work and privation followed, all the better to leave his past to bury itself in those blood-soaked fields.

And that is why John Carter felt a completely different man as he put down the well-worn spade and wiped a trickle of sweat from his damp brow. He had worked up quite a sweat despite the relatively cool winter of 1865. Carter had never seen such a sultry December, but apparently Mother Nature went in for that sort of thing in these parts.

The Arizona wastelands, strewn with hills, painted valleys, and vast tracks of sunbaked red earth, could hardly be called inviting, but for those strong enough to withstand its gauntlet of woes it was the perfect frontier to make one's mark.

"Did ya decide to break off work early?"

John started. He hadn't even heard Jim coming up behind him. Turning, Carter eyed his old comrade, a spare man no older than thirty-five. Powel's full beard and mustache stood in stark contrast to his own smooth shaven face and short brown hair. Powel was every bit the southern gentleman, and a part of Carter realized his globetrotting ways had made him something of an outsider even among his kin in Virginia. Joining the Confederate cause more out of a sense of loyal duty than a belief in their cause, it soon became clear that the man who had won the friendships of an old and powerful emperor and several lesser kings was not cut from the same cloth as his fellow soldiers.

In the end, they shared little more in common than allegiance to their state.

Carter's clear gray eyes drifted to the distance and he took a halfhearted swipe at the sandstone in front of him. "No. I just needed to rest a piece."

The other man clapped him on the shoulder, raising a cloud of dust. "Don't worry, John. This slump can't last forever. We're on the right track. I can practically smell that gold."

OOO

And he was right. The very next day a chance hammer blow revealed one of the most remarkable gold-bearing quartz vein that their wildest dreams had ever pictured. Powell told his friend that they had uncovered over a million dollars worth of ore.

Which led to another problem. Their equipment was crude in the extreme. One of them had to return to civilization, purchase the necessary machinery and return with a sufficient force of men to properly work the mine. Powell, a mining engineer by education, was familiar with both the country and the mechanical requirements of mining. They determined that it would be best for him to make the trip while Carter held down their claim against the remote possibility of its being jumped by some wandering prospector.

So he packed his provisions on two of their burros and mounted his horse, bidding John good-bye a mere two days after their discovery. Powell started down the mountainside toward the valley, beyond which lay a trading outpost.

The morning of his departure was, like nearly all Arizona mornings, clear and beautiful. Carter could see him and his little pack animals picking their way down the mountainside toward the valley. All during the morning he would catch the occasional glimpse of them as they topped a hogback or came out upon a level plateau. Slowly his figure shrunk from a man to a doll, finally becoming a shapeless smudge quivering in the liquid heat. His last sight of Powell was about three in the afternoon as he entered the shadows of the range on the opposite side of the valley.

Some half an hour later, John happened to glance casually across the valley. He had just taken a sip of water but suddenly found his mouth going dry and the contradictory sensation of icy fingers prickling their way down his spine. Three little spots appeared in about the same place he had last seen his friend. Virginians were not given to needless worrying, but the more he tried to convince himself that the dots he had seen were only antelope or wild horses, the less sure he became.

There had been whispers of hostile Indians when they entered the territory. Neither man having seen evidence to back up that claim, had they become careless in the extreme. Powell was even wont to ridicule the stories they heard from other settlers and soldiers of fortune. If great numbers of these vicious marauders haunted the trails, taking their toll in lives and torture of every white party they came across, surely they would have found concrete evidence long before.

Reason told him what he saw were animals heading to a watering hole. Reason told him to sit tight and hold down their claim. But nations were not forged nor frontiers conquered by practical, reasonable men. Powell was well armed and an experienced fighter. However, Carter had lived and fought for years among the Sioux in the North. His friends chances against a cunning party of trailing Apaches were slimmer than a snowstorm's chance of crossing the equator.

He could endure the uncertainty no longer. Seizing two Colt revolvers and a carbine from the weapons locker, he strapped two belts of cartridges about his chest and caught his horse's stirrup, swinging himself easily into the saddle.

A swift kick of his spurs and he'd started down the trail taken by Powell that morning. As soon as Carter reached level ground he urged his mount into a canter and continued until close upon dusk. For mile upon mile a single, clear line of hoof prints trudged easily on the path. Had he conjured up impossible dangers like some nervous housewife? The way things looked, the only reward for his pains would be a good laugh when he caught up with his partner.

Then Carter's blood ran cold. From the concealing camouflage of field of brush, he discovered the point where other tracks joined those of Powell. They were the hoofs of unshod ponies, three of them. And by the sand they left scattered in their wake, the ponies had been galloping.

Kicking his horse to a new tempo, he followed until darkness forced him to await the rising of the moon. Still far from certain about what he would find at the end of this chase, he refused to allow that to obstruct his sense of responsibility. That sentiment accounted for many adventures over the years and the honors bestowed by three republics in whose service his sword had run red more than once.

About nine o'clock the moonlight cast a sufficient beacon for Carter to proceed. He continued at a brisk trot. Then at midnight, while wind whispered through rocky crevices, he reached the watering hole where Powell had expected to camp. There had been no guiding firelight and he came upon the spot unexpectedly, finding it entirely deserted. He saw no signs of having it been recently occupied as a camp.

Dew settled upon his horse's mane. John looked up into the heavens, catching a glimpse of the rusty speck of Mars in those clear skies. With no cloud cover it had actually became cool, but the lone man gave these things scant attention.

The tracks of the pursuing horsemen, for they could be nothing else, continued after Powell after only a brief stop at the hole for water. By their gait he estimated that they shadowed at the same rate of speed as Powell.

John no longer conjectured. The trailers were Apaches and that was that. He urged his horse onward, hoping against hope that he might close the gap in time. The pace was dangerous in that pale light, especially in that treacherous landscape. For all he knew, the Indians had heard his pursuit and any number of them might be waiting in ambush.

It did not matter. A friend's life was at stake!

The faint report of two shots far ahead cut any further speculation short. If Powell ever needed help it was now. Urging his horse to his topmost speed up the narrow mountain trail, John left the soil churned, forgetting every concern in the overmastering drive to save a human soul.

Another mile passed. He forged ahead without hearing further sounds when the trail passed through a narrow, overhanging gorge just before entering suddenly upon a tableland, and the sight which met his eyes filled him with dread.

For a stretch, the little plateau was white with the sun-bleached finery of Indian tepees, and there were probably half a thousand red warriors clustered around some object near the center of the camp. Their attention was so wholly riveted that they did not notice the newcomer at first. He could easily have turned back into the dark recesses of the gorge and escape in perfect safety.

John Carter had received the honors of a hero on more than one occasion, but he never considered himself cut from that cloth. In all of the instances where his acts placed him in a stare down with death, he recalled no other alternative possibility. Evidently his subconscious drove him into the path of duty without recourse to tiresome mental processes.

Be that as it may, it would be some hours before it occurred to John that retreat had been an option. He could not see through the ranks of red bodies, but instinct told him Powell was the center attraction. In an instant he whipped out his revolvers and lashed his stallion into a charge, shooting rapidly and whooping at the top of his lungs. Singlehanded, he could not have pursued better tactics. It never occurred to them that a single man would take on an entire army of warriors. Convinced by surprise that not less than a regiment of regulars was upon them, they turned and fled in every direction for their bows, arrows, and rifles.

Rage filled Carter then, for the dissolving crowd disclosed a horrific view. Under the clear rays of the Arizona moon laid Powell, his body fairly bristling with the hostile arrows of the braves. His friend was dead, Carter knew that, and yet he would have saved his body from mutilation at the hands of the Apaches no less than the man himself from death.

John slid down in the saddle and got caught Powell's cartridge belt, drawing him up across the withers of his mount. By that point it would be more hazardous to return by the way he came than to continue across the plateau, so, putting spurs to his poor beast, he made a dash for a narrow opening to the pass which he could distinguish on the far side of the tableland.

A cry apprised John that the Indians had discovered their lone assailant and he was dogged by imprecations, arrows, and rifle balls. Fortunately it was difficult to aim anything but imprecations accurately by moonlight. Deadly projectiles lanced all about him. A bullet whizzed close by his left ear, but John had the wind at his back and his pursuers were startled by the sudden and unexpected manner of his arrival. Only that unique combination of factors permitted him to reach the shadows of the surrounding peaks before an orderly hunt could be organized.

Soon shouts of anger vanished beneath the clomp of horse hooves as his mount, traveling practically unguided, picked his way along the trails in the general direction of the pass. Thus it happened that he stumbled upon a little used defile which led to the summit of the range and not to the pass which Carter had hoped would carry him to the valley and ultimate safety.

But John realized he was on the wrong trail when the yells of the pursuers grew fainter and fainter far off to his left. In those darkened, predawn hours the Indians had passed to the left of the jagged rock formation at the edge of the plateau. John's mount had borne his riders to the right.

Riders? It was rider and he knew it. Yet John clung to the tenuous hope that he might be able to revive him. But for that he needed to find a place of comparative safety. He drew rein on a little level promontory overlooking the trail below. On his left hand he saw the party of pursuing savages disappearing around the point of a neighboring peak.

The Indians would soon discover that they were on the wrong trail. He would be a fool to believe otherwise. Before long they would double back and the search would be renewed in the right track.

The ruddy stallion had a smooth gait, but slipped from time to time on the hard rock faces. Carter remained mute. His friend's blood slicked the animal's sides, and though well trained the beast grew uneasy at the smell. John tried not to look, tried not to think, and plunged ahead.

He had gone but a short distance further when a more level trail opened up around the face of a high, crumbling cliff. The trail was flat and broad, leading upward and more or less in the right direction. The cliff arose for several hundred feet on his right. On the other side a nearly perpendicular drop into a rocky ravine threatened death no less sure than the Apaches ever could.

He had followed this trail for perhaps a hundred yards when a sharp turn brought him into the shadow of a mesa and the mouth of a large cave half hidden by rocks. The aperture was about four feet in height and three feet wide, and at this opening the trail ended.

At that moment morning broke with the customary lack of dawn, a startling characteristic of Arizona. Daylight illuminated the countryside and John Carter saw there was no alternative. He had come to a dead end.

It would have to do.

Dismounting, he dragged Powell under cover and laid him upon the ground, but the most painstaking examination failed to reveal the faintest spark of life. Undaunted, he pulled out his canteen and forced water between his dead lips, bathed his face and rubbed his hands, working over him continuously for the better part of an hour in the face of the fact that he knew him to be dead.

Carter slumped to the floor beside his friend's body. Truth be told he was exhausted, and the fire born of adrenaline had long since burned itself out. He had always been fond of Powell, by all accounts a man in every respect, a polished southern gentleman, and a staunch and true comrade. A wave of grief washed over him as he finally gave up his crude endeavors at resuscitation.

John Carter had been too late to rescue the last of his old friends.

He heaved a sigh. There was no time for such emotions or useless regrets. They would keep for now.

Leaving Powell's body where it lay by the cave mouth, he crept further inside to reconnoiter. He found a large chamber, possibly a hundred feet in diameter and thirty or forty feet in height. Walls and floor alike were smooth, well-worn, and covered from top to bottom in some of the most intricate, colorful etchings, and many other evidences that the cave had, at some remote period, been inhabited. And though these decorative carvings gleamed as though plated with gold or covered by enamel, the light they cast illuminated nothing but artwork itself. In fact, the back of the cave was so lost in dense shadow that he could not distinguish whether there were openings into other apartments or not.

Still, the collage of pictographs held sufficient interest in and of themselves to slake his curiosity on what might lay beyond.

OOO

The thought first occurred to John that this was an Indian holy place, a shrine or tomb dedicated to some mighty hero of their ranks. If so, he may have stumbled across the one niche of safety in all the surrounding peaks. The sanction of taboo was enough to keep races less uncivilized than these natives from crossing the boundaries of religious convention.

He quickly gave over that thought. Apache culture was well established, but this place, despite its being well preserved, gave off an aura of antiquity which dwarfed the red-skinned race into infancy.

One wall depicted a shaft of light shining from some heavenly body, a crimson star or planet, striking the ground where knelt a fair-skinned, fair-haired, robe-clad figure. The vivid colors made it all come to life before his eyes, if only he understood what it meant. On closer inspection, the radiant beam was not merely golden in color, but actually made of the precious metal, polished and still lustrous even after the many ages which must have passed since its construction.

Opposite this stood the image of a great city, high walled and vast. Massive buildings, crowned by majestic spires, jutted skyward. It was a metropolis at once splendorous and barbaric in its lines, all sharp angles and overhanging terraces. None of this could be of Apache origin, but no culture predating them could have hoped to create such wonders.

He was still puzzling over this when he chanced to glance up. A third mural spanned the unnaturally smooth ceiling of the cave. Obsidian night and stars cast in glittering gemstones. As the sun continued to rise outside, these artificial luminaries began to blaze with an internal fire. He squinted, frowning at this wonder, at once so beautiful and impossible.

John Carter was no astronomer, but he recognized a rendering of the solar system when he saw it, only this mockup was far more detailed than any he had ever seen. The jewels embedded in the lacquered rock were connected to rings of gold ascribing their orbits, and he saw evidence of asteroids and planets of which no one on earth had ever imagined.

Could a civilization millennia old have possessed technology equal to, or perhaps even surpassing, his own?

He peered back at the massive city. The unearthly vegetation surrounding it was lush and ruddy, unlike any plant life he ever saw. Perhaps the pigment used to tint it had faded over the many years, but why would that fade if the other murals had not?

Though this fascinating discovery held his attention, his pursuit at the hands of the Indians had not been forgotten. So it was that when he heard the sound of approaching horses, followed by the gentle scrape of bare feet on stone, he instinctively loosened his revolver in its holster. Half turning, he caught sight of a painted face spying on him from around the mouth of the cave.

Not hesitating, the Virginian drew his pistol and fired point blank. In that cramped echo chamber, the explosion nearly deafened John, but the head had withdrawn even as he pulled the trigger, escaping death by fractions of an inch.

John whirled and made for the dark recesses of the cavern's interior, soon losing himself in shadow laden gloom, fearful that any moment might see him knocking face first into solid stone. Behind him he heard the chaotic babel of a dozen voices, too fractured by bouncing off the cave walls to be understood even if he possessed a perfect grasp of the tongue.

They were coming for him. He did not need to speak Apache to know that. He had interrupted their fiendish pleasure and they required recompense in his red blood.

Running his hand along the wall to keep track of his progress, the white man kept up his reckless pace until a single glimmer of light, feebler than the gleam of moonlight off of a robin's egg. Then, using that marker to steer by, he glided along the passage in search of safety or its kissing cousin, a place to hide. Still, he could run until his legs gave out or hide so that no city bred man could hope to discover him; none of that would matter if these savage brutes decided they _wanted_ him.

Such morbid thoughts accompanied him as the walls opened out and he emerged into another pocket chamber. Though large, it was not half the size of the previous cavern. Yet every surface had been leveled and smoothed by the unmistakable hand of man. Again he was forced to marvel at what millennia old civilization could possibly have achieved such architectural feats as this.

On the far end of the chamber, surrounded by paintings, glyphs, and pictograms he could not begin to make sense of, stood a large structure, big as a covered wagon, in the form of a fierce, many-legged, lizard-like creature, crouched as though preparing to charge.

Or… he spied that the statue bore a saddle. Could it be bending the knee to await a rider? Carter did not know. White as new fallen snow, smoother than glass, it lay nestled against the wall, giving off a pale glow from deep inside its translucent, shell-like casing.

For a moment, Carter stared, dumbfounded. However, the sounds the chase coming from the passage sobered him. No other tunnel led from the chamber. In all the adventure novels he read, sacred or secret places like this were always honeycombed by concealed passages. Perhaps searching this uncanny machination would yield another way out.

He had to try.

Making a hurried but systematic examination of the walls, he turned his attention fully on the white beast, rapping at it with his knuckles and listening for a hollow spot which might reveal the existence of a hidden cavity in the body. Finally, he came to the statue's front end and his breath caught. The wide mouth dividing its wedge-shaped head lay open in a soundless snarl. But when he peered down its gullet, a dark gulf revealed itself.

Not pausing to consider the ramifications, he plunged his arm to the shoulder down the statue's throat, groping along a series of smooth patches and narrow ridges until his questing fingers reached an open nook deep inside. A small smile graced his countenance, hope filling him. Now to find a pressure switch or something of the like. He felt and found a small protuberance at the bottom of the little hollow.

He pressed it, and to his utter surprise a mechanism inside the statue clacked. But the joy was short lived. Something hard and cold snapped around his wrist, locking in place with ratcheting finality.

_By heaven! _Carter thought. Had he just been shackled to this hellish beast in the face of his pursuers? Wrenching his arm, he was relieved to find it came free without much difficulty. But his eye caught sight of something glinting on his wrist, a wide band or armlet, and realized that this was what he had felt clamp around it. The wristlet was white and gleaming, much like the statue itself, only ornate, covered by gemstones, runes, and patterns he could not decipher. He pulled on it, but it would not come free, and strangely enough, it was warm to the touch.

He had not long to ponder this before a stealthy sound apprised him of the nearing braves. Pulling his weapon, Carter whirled to face the danger when a gem on the armlet flared and his muscles went utterly rigid as though turned to stone. His entire body, charged by sky fire, burned and threatened to burst. The pistol, not yet firmly in his grasp, dropped from nerveless fingers, clattering uselessly to the floor.

Panic seized him. To be held frozen in the face of advancing death was bad enough, but his very being felt like it might erupt into liquid flame at any moment. The pain nearly blinded him, and only his paralysis stopped him from screaming as the surging heat beneath his skin flayed every nerve down its smallest fiber.

And then a war-bonneted, paint-streaked face thrust from the shadows, savage eyes looking into John's. Another savage followed, and a third and fourth and fifth, craning their necks over the shoulders of their fellows whom they could not pass in the narrow tunnel.

Each face, fierce and malevolent, gloated over his plight, either not caring or not realizing the true depths of his helplessness. The first who spied him motioned to one of his companions, a tall, lean warrior bearing a strung longbow. The feathered brave fitted an arrow on the string, drawing it back before raising the weapon on a level with his heart.

It was the last word in fearsome predicaments for a man who had ever been used to fighting for his life. With a superhuman effort Carter strove to break his awful bonds. It was an effort of the mind, of the will, of the nerves; not muscular, for he could not move even so much as his little finger, but none the less mighty for all that.

And then a second gem sparked to life on the wristband, followed by an intricate pattern of tiny lights, forming a design not unlike the star map from the previous room. As he gazed it seemed to call to the unthinkable void, to draw him as the lodestone attracts a particle of iron.

The energy blotted out all else. Consciousness threatened to flee him at any moment. Something snapped and he felt himself dissolved into his elementary molecules, drawn with the suddenness of thought through the trackless immensity of space. There was an instant of extreme cold followed by utter darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Advent

A single breath of icy air flooded lungs too stunned to receive it. Carter broke into a fit of unbearable coughing as he curled himself into fetal ball, his entire frame still throbbing under the influence of excruciating awareness. The pain of mere moments earlier had passed off as though it had never been, yet it left its indelible mark upon him. He writhed at the phantom sensation of insects crawling over his prickling flesh, and frigid rawness seemed to have seared him to the very bone.

Carter opened his eyes to indistinct, gauzy darkness. An explosion of agony in his skull left him reeling. But as blood returned to his numbed extremities, the pounding, itching, and shock slowly abated.

Though it remained dark, the Virginian spied the hazy glitter of a single, blue green star. How long had he been unconscious? How had he gotten outside the cave?

Such questions plagued him while he got his head together. Then the amazing memory of his escape through the ether returned to him in all its fearful glory. As incredible as it should be, he knew he was no longer on Earth; never did he question either his sanity or wakefulness. But that did not answer the dilemma of where he found himself.

_Is this… death?_

No. He could not believe that. He could feel his heart pounding against his ribs. His breath came in quick, short gasps as cold sweat stood out from every pore, and the ancient experiment of pinching revealed the fact that he was anything other than a wraith.

The tiniest sliver of light sprang from a stark horizon, omitting any of the customary grey dawn he knew so well. Following it came a fiery, yellow-orange ball, only noticeably smaller than the sun of Earth. Just like that it was day. The transition had been so sudden and so unexpected that it left him for a moment forgetful of his strange metamorphosis.

He pushed himself into a sitting position upon a bed of yellowish, moss-like vegetation which stretched in all directions for interminable miles. Far off behind him stretched the beautiful vista of rocky gorge. In the other direction he could distinguish the irregularities of low hills. Here and there slight outcroppings of quartz-bearing rock glistened in the light, completing the astonishing panorama. And as if to confirm the notion solidifying in his mind, high in the heavens hung two resplendent orbs, twin moons, fading to obscurity as the sun continued to rise. Then the whole thing came together in startling finality.

_My God, I'm on Mars._

It was the only explanation, barring the notion that fate had deposited him in another galaxy altogether. From the cradle of the God of his nation he had been thrust into the bosom of the god of his vocation. The idea left him in dazed confusion.

He shielded his eyes from the growing brightness and caught a glint off the strange gauntlet. It no longer displayed lights or patterns, and was, for all appearances, insensate metal. Carter took hold of it and pulled, trying to dislodge it, but whatever mechanism had been employed to lock its halves together defied human strength.

Giving up the matter, the necessities of mundane life asserted themselves once more. He was hungry and thirsty, but he saw no water and no other vegetation than the moss. But he did not take much further interest in the yellowish turf, for one could not live on grass like Nebuchadnezzar. That required a special dispensation of Providence and peculiar digestive organs. Since lounging on the delicate portions of his anatomy could not satisfy those demands he determined to do a little exploring.

Springing to his feet Carter received yet another surprise. For the effort, which would have brought him standing upright on Earth, launched him into the air about three yards. Arms and legs flailing, he toppled head over heels in ungraceful gyrations. And since his ancestors had neither inherited nor transmitted the vertebral action of a cat, he nearly landed on his head when he hit the ground.

Stunned but stubborn he sat up again, cautiously feeling out each motion. It seemed he must learn to walk all over again. The exertion which carried him easily and safely upon Earth played strange antics with him upon Mars. Something in the lesser gravity or air pressure of this new world must be working in concert with his Earth bred muscles to increase his strength.

Taking care, he rose shakily and tried again but landed flat on his face at his second step. The very act of walking kicked out his legs from under him. Further efforts produced a variety of results. Instead of progressing in a sane, dignified manner, his attempts to walk resulted in clumsy hops which took him clear off the ground a couple of feet at each step and landed him sprawling upon his face or back at the end of each second or third hop.

Mars was a smaller world than Earth with rules all its own. This was clearly going to take some getting used to.

OOO

It was midday. The sun shone full upon him and the heat of it seared him right through his ragged clothes. He did his best not to notice as he made his snail-like progress. After nearly dashing his brains out for the tenth time he had hit upon the unique plan of reverting to the first principles in locomotion, creeping. Such might be safer, but it had taken hours to travel a few scant miles.

He stopped and sat up to view the trackless wastes.

It was a sea, though most might call it sand. But to John Carter, sand was seldom so still and red and dense with grains. Little ridges dotted its vast expanse like the swelling crests of its aqueous counterpart.

To practical, logical men, it was a desert.

But only a sea could so brood with the memory of eons. Only a sea, lying so silent beneath the skies, could hint of former days behind its barren veil. And this place had memories. Of that, Carter was certain.

He scanned the empty horizon. Too much more of this and he would drop from exhaustion and exposure. Nothing but unpeopled wilds met his eye. But what was that over there?

He leaped to his feet and nearly flung himself skyward again. A little to his left, perhaps a hundred yards, appeared a low, walled enclosure. Nestled against a little group of rocky spires, at the distance it looked more or less like an ant-hill.

Determined to investigate, John kept his muscles under rigid control and shuffled toward the low structure which was the only evidence of habitation in sight. In a few minutes he reached the encircling wall of the enclosure, though the midday sun dashed any hopes he had of finding a trickle of shade. Seeing no doors or windows upon the side nearest him, he circled the little earthen structure so far as he was able. The wall was about six and a half feet high, so he cautiously pulled himself up and peered over the top upon the strangest sight it had ever been given him to see.

The roof of the enclosure was a solid crystalline substance about four or five inches thick, and beneath this were several hundred large eggs, perfectly round and snowy white. The eggs were nearly uniform in size being about one and one-half feet in diameter.

Five or six had already hatched and the grotesque caricatures which squirmed, blinking in the sunlight, were enough to cause him to doubt his sanity. They seemed mostly head, with squat bodies, long necks and six legs. Their eyes were set wide apart and a trifle above the center of the face, giving them a wider range of vision, and better peripheral vision, than human beings.

The ears were small and cup-shaped lacking the ridges and folds of his own race and protruding no more than an inch on these young specimens. Their noses were but longitudinal slits in the center of their faces, midway between their eyes and mouths.

These latter sported a most ferocious set of tusks. They curved upward to sharp points which ended just below the eyes. Against the dark background of their hairless, olive skins, their tusks stood out in a most striking manner, making these weapons present a dazzling, formidable appearance.

_Is this some sort of incubator?_

Carter stood observing the writhing, squealing monsters for some time, marveling as he watched them break from their shells. He was so engrossed that it was almost too late before he noticed a score of full-grown Martians on approach behind him.

The rattling accouterments of the foremost warrior warned him, for that was a sound he could not mistake. Had not the leader's rifle bumped against the butt of his great metal-shod spear he would have snuffed out without ever knowing death had come. But the little sound caused him to turn. Not ten feet away gleamed that spear, a weapon as tall as its wielder, tipped with gleaming metal, and held low at the side of a mounted replica of the little devils he had been watching.

But how puny and harmless they looked beside this huge and terrific incarnation of hatred, vengeance, and death. The man himself, if John could call him such, was darker than its progeny, fully fourteen feet in height. What he had taken as six legs were actually two legs and four arms. The creature sat his mount as humans rode a warhorse, grasping the animal's barrel with his lower limbs, while the hands of his two right arms held his immense spear low at the flank of his mount; his two left arms were outstretched to the side for balance, the thing he rode having neither bridle nor reins of any description.

And his mount! It towered ten feet at the shoulder, standing on eight tree trunk legs. Its tail, larger at the tip than at the root hung rigidly behind it; a gaping mouth which split its head from its snout to its long, massive neck hung slightly open as if scenting the air. Like its master, it was entirely devoid of hair, but its dark slate color hide was smooth and glossy. Its belly was white, and its legs slowly blended from the slate of its shoulders and hips to a vivid yellow at the feet. The feet themselves were heavily padded, lacking nails. It explained the noiselessness of their approach.

It occurred to John that back in that Arizona cave he had reached his arm into the statue of a creature remarkably similar to this beast. How that related to his present predicament he could not say. He couldn't bring himself to believe that this barbaric race originated the devices that translated him to another world. Yet might they be all that remained of such a people after its collapse back into savagery?

He did not know.

Behind this first charging demon trailed nineteen similar marauders. They looked identical to him at first, though he soon distinguished individual characteristics peculiar to each. It did not surprise him. These green Martians would be different precisely as no two humans are identical regardless of being cast in a similar mold.

This picture, or rather materialized nightmare, made but one terrible impression as John turned to meet it. Unarmed as he was, the first law of nature manifested itself in the only possible solution. Back on Earth it would have been impossible, but he had to get out of the way of that charging spear.

Necessity lent him wings. He gave a very earthly and, at the same time, superhuman leap to reach the top of the Martian incubator. He overshot his mark by over thirty feet, and found himself rocketing toward a column of granite. By every normal convention it should not have worked, but in moments he was fumbling for traction on the top of one of the stone spires. It appalled the Martian warriors no less. John missed his grip, but another kick off the rocky pillar carried him a hundred feet from his pursuers where he alighted upon the soft moss on the opposite side of the enclosure.

He caught his balance, turning to see his enemies crowding along the further wall. Some surveyed him with expressions of astonishment. The others were satisfying themselves that he had not molested their young.

Swallowing hard, his wide eyes never straying from these hobgoblins, Carter waited to see what their next move might be.

In turn they gathered together, conversing in low grunts and gesticulating, pointing toward him. Their discovery that he had not meddled with the miniature Martians, and that he was unarmed, must have caused them to reevaluate the threat he posed. They certainly grew less ferocious; but he would learn later that the thing which weighed most in his favor was that wild exhibition of hurdling.

While the Martians were large, they were only muscled in proportion to the gravitation which they must overcome. That meant they were less agile and less powerful, pound for pound, than an Earth man. Chances were that if one of them was transported to Earth he could hardly lift his own weight from the ground.

As a result John's feat then was as marvelous upon Mars as it would have been upon Earth. It gained him a moment of respite to formulate plans for the immediate future. Carter stood a good two inches over six feet, but these barbarians towered over him like monstrous titans. The more he scrutinized the appearance of the warriors, the more parallels he drew between them and those who, only the day before, had pursued him across the Arizona desert.

Each was loaded down by a multitude of weapons. Beside the huge spear they carried long rifles. Some instinct warned him that they were peculiarly efficient in handling the firearms. In any event, an attempt to escape in broad daylight from under the muzzles of twenty of these death-dealing machines would be courting instant annihilation.

The barrels of these firearms were of a white metal stocked with wood and hardened steel. The Martians held them as though they weighed nothing, and with the small caliber, explosive projectiles which they used, and the great length of the barrel, made them deadly at ranges which would be unthinkable for a terrestrial carrying his comparatively clumsy rifle. He caught a glint of the well-polished lens of the gun's scope and knew these creatures would make short work of him, however fast or agile he may be.

The Martians, after conversing for a short time, turned and rode away in the direction from which they had come, leaving one of their number alone by the enclosure. When they had covered perhaps two hundred yards they halted. There they turned their mounts and sat watching the warrior by the enclosure. It was an encouraging gesture, not that they couldn't shoot him dead in an instant if the whim prompted them.

But the evident leader of the band, the one who had nearly spitted him, no longer seemed of a mind to kill the pale midget he had discovered. When his force had come to a halt he dismounted his alien steed, throwing down his spear, long sword, and small arms, and came around the end of the incubator toward Carter, wearing only a thick leather harness the ornaments strapped upon his head, limbs, and breast.

His face was unreadable, the green giant took a few steps forward raising a hand in greeting. "Kaor," he called, never letting his guard down despite the mutual lack of lethal hardware. These people obviously did not trust him. They were soldiers, likely expecting enemies in any new contact. John knew he must handle himself carefully and not make any sudden moves. If all went wrong, he could probably vault over the Martian's head, reach the discarded weapons first, and cut him down before anyone could stop him.

Yet he would not do so unless he had no other options. The others would be quick to avenge him, and John wanted to preserve his own life if at all possible.

When he came within about fifty feet the warrior pointed to himself, speaking in a clear, resonant voice. "Amor ra Thark, Tars Tarkas." He stopped as though waiting for a reply, pricking up his ears and cocking his head to the side, gesturing toward him again.

The painful silence made a reply of some sort necessary. Had this stranger just made overtures of peace? The throwing down of his weapons and the withdrawing of his troop would have signified a peaceful mission back home, so why not here?

Placing his hand over his heart the human came to attention, one old soldier to another. "I'm John Carter," he said, and then added. "From Earth."

Of course he might have been a babbling brook for all the intelligence he conveyed, but something had to be said, and at least the other knew the two of them spoke different languages.

The green man's face wrinkled a manifestation of incredulity. "Ear-Rat?"

John grimaced, feeling something had just gotten lost in translation. "No." He pointed to himself again. "I am Carter. John Carter."

The Martian fingered his chin, shrugging. "Ear-Rat."

Carter shrugged as well, giving up the matter for now. He smiled at him and stood waiting. The other's wide mouth spread into an answering smile. He approached the human slowly and held out an arm, locking one of his intermediary limbs around John's elbow and walked him back toward his mount. At the same time he motioned his followers to advance.

They mob started toward them on a wild run, but were checked by a signal from their leader. Evidently he feared that if John became really frightened again he might jump entirely out of the landscape. And that raised another question which needed answering. Exactly what were the limits of his newfound power?

He exchanged a few words with his men before motioning to their prize. "Entor ra Ear-Rat!" proclaimed the warrior waving a negligent hand.

"No, no. I'm really not," said John, shaking his head in defeat.

By now he had worked out that this leader's name must be Tars Tarkas. He motioned for the human to ride behind one of his subordinates, and then mounted his own massive animal.

The fellow designated reached down two or three hands and lifted John behind him on the glossy back of his mount. He hung on as best he could by the belts and straps which held the Martian's weapons and ornaments.

The entire cavalcade then turned and galloped away toward the range of hills in the distance, leaving John to wonder if he had just formed an uneasy alliance or made the biggest mistake of his career.

OOO

The procession had gone perhaps ten miles when the ground began to steadily rise. But this was not the edge of a great valley. It took some to puzzle it out, but Carter realized that his first intuition had been the correct one. His advent on Mars began in the vast depths of one of its extinct oceans. That long dead sea bottom was one of many such regions, and the green men knew these arid places like the backs of their hands.

After an hour or two of riding, they gained the foot of the mountains which lead up to the highlands of an ancient continent. Traversing a narrow gorge, the group came to an open valley, at the far extremity of which was a low tableland upon which John beheld a city of such enormity that he stifled a gasp. The little band galloped toward it, following a well-trodden, but moss veiled, path. Finally, this groundcover ended by the edge of the table land and they entered the city by what appeared to be a ruined roadway that terminated abruptly in a flight of broad stone steps.

They passed beneath a tall arch, through which a dozen of the green warriors could easily ride abreast. At first he thought the city a construction of his hosts. Upon closer observation he saw that many of the buildings were deserted, and while not greatly decayed they had the appearance of not having been tenanted for years, possibly for ages. Toward the center of the city lay a large plaza, and upon this and in the buildings immediately surrounding it were camped some nine or ten hundred Martians.

With the exception of their ornaments all were naked. To his Earth man eyes, the women varied in appearance but little from the men, except that their bodies were smaller and lighter in color, and their fingers and toes bore the rudiments of nails, which were entirely lacking among the males. The adult females ranged in height from ten to twelve feet, making them less imposing than their masculine counterparts, but only comparatively so. He had no doubt that even a younger female could rend him if she so desired.

The children varied in height, as any offspring will according to age and parentage. Only they must develop rather quickly. Other than the infants he saw back in the incubator he saw no examples of these brutes that were not fully formed. Save for weight and skill, put a sword in the hand of any and they could enter the field of battle no less readily than their forefathers.

As they neared the plaza, the presence of a small white detainee drew more and more notice. They were soon surrounded by hundreds of the creatures, many of whom seemed anxious to pluck John from his seat behind the guard. A word from the leader of the party stilled their clamor.

One tall but lean warrior sprinted up to the flank of Tars Tarkas' mount, anger evident on his face as the gleam of blood light shone in his eye. "Kaor, Tars Tarkas! Oaur com sup com wit awl!" And he pointed angrily at Carter.

Tars Tarkas answered him with a double-fisted backhand that sent the young brute flying. He landed in a heap at the feet of the crowd, a green-black welt already forming in his cheek and shoulder.

"Tem-dom gal, Zad," Tars Tarkas said evenly, snorting in evident distain.

They proceeded at a trot across the plaza while a few women dragged Zad's unconscious form into shelter. Beyond this central square they came to the entrance of as magnificent an edifice as human eye had rested upon.

The building was low, but sprawled across an enormous area. It was constructed of gleaming white marble inlaid with gold and brilliant stones which sparkled and scintillated in the sunlight. It reminded John very much of that chamber in the Arizona cave, but on a much grander scale. The main entrance was some hundred feet in width and projected from the building proper to form a huge canopy above the entrance hall. There was no stairway, but a gentle incline to the first floor of the building opened into an enormous chamber encircled by galleries.

On the floor of this chamber, which was dotted with highly carved wooden desks and chairs, were assembled about forty or fifty male Martians around the steps of a rostrum. On the platform proper sat, or rather squatted, an enormous warrior resplendent in heavy metal ornaments, vibrant-colored feathers, and beautifully wrought leather trappings set with precious stones. From his shoulders depended a short cape of white fur lined with brilliant scarlet silk. It was the first fir of any kind John had seen on Mars. He wondered what creature it came from that these enormous barbarians reserved its splendor for their chiefs.

But what struck him as most remarkable about this assemblage and the hall in which they were congregated was the fact that the creatures were entirely out of proportion to the desks, chairs, and other furnishings. They were manufactured for beings no larger than himself, whereas the great bulks of the Martians could scarcely have squeezed into the chairs, nor was there room beneath the desks for their long legs. Were there other denizens on Mars than the wild and grotesque creatures into whose hands he had fallen? It was possible, but the evidences of extreme antiquity which showed all about suggested that these buildings might have belonged to some long-extinct and forgotten race in the dim antiquity of this world.

His captors, for such he now considered them despite the suave manner in which he had been trapped, halted at the entrance to the building. At a sign from the leader a warrior took hold of John and lowered him to the ground. Again Tars Tarkas locked arms with his prisoner and the two proceeded into the audience chamber.

John witnessed few formalities in approaching the Martian chieftain. They merely strode up to the platform, the others making way as they advanced. The chieftain rose to his feet and uttered the name of his escort who, in turn, halted and gave what might be termed a bow, never taking his eyes from the other.

"Kaor Jed, Lorquas Ptomel."

John had already begun to piece bits of this alien language together, at least enough to know that Tars Tarkas had just given a simple greeting to his leader. When they finished conversing, the chieftain turned to him and grunted some question.

John replied in good old English merely to convince him that neither could understand the other; but he noticed that when he smiled slightly on concluding, Lorquas Ptomel did likewise. This fact, and the similar occurrence during that first talk with Tars Tarkas, convinced John that these two peoples shared something in common; the ability to smile, denoting a sense of humor. But he was yet to learn that the Martian smile was merely perfunctory, and that the Martian laugh was a thing to cause strong men to blanch in horror.

Tars Tarkas evidently explained the incidents connected with his expedition. The assembled warriors and chieftains examined John closely, feeling his muscles and the texture of his skin. The principal chief then signaled a desire to see him in action. Motioning the human to follow, he started with Tars Tarkas for the open plaza.

John tried to catch up with them, but his first step sent him skipping into a hardwood desk. He tumbled over it into chairs. One skinned shin and a dozen bruises later, much to the amusement of the Martians, he again fell back on creeping, but this did not suit them and he was roughly jerked to his feet by a towering fellow who laughed most heartily at his awkwardness.

As he banged the human down upon his feet he hunched over to heap further scorn. John felt the blood mounting to his face. He did the only thing a gentleman might do under the circumstances of brutality, boorishness, and lack of consideration for a stranger's rights. He swung his fist squarely at the cretin's jaw, the solidness of the contact going straight down to his toes, and the giant went down like a felled ox.

As he sunk to the floor John wheeled around with his back toward the nearest desk, expecting to be overwhelmed by the vengeance of his fellows, but determined to give them as good a battle as the unequal odds would permit before losing his life.

His fears went unrealized, however, as the other Martians, at first struck dumb in wonderment, finally broke into wild peals of laughter and applause.

The fellow he struck lay where he fell, nor did any of his comrades approach him. Tars Tarkas, amusement evident on his countenance, advanced toward John and held out one of his arms. Thus, being led like a wayward child, he proceeded to the plaza without further mishap.

John stood waiting to learn the reason they had come to the open. Lorquas Ptomel waved him on and repeated the word "sak" a number of times. When the human failed to grasp his meaning, Tars Tarkas got his attention. He held his hands at breast height, about two feet apart. Then, using a third arm he pantomimed a miniature figure jumping between the outstretched palms.

"Sak!" he said.

Seeing what they were after, John gathered himself together and "sakked" with such success that he cleared a good hundred and fifty feet. This time he kept his balance, landing squarely upon his feet like a professional gymnast. After a moment he returned by easy jumps of twenty-five or thirty feet to the congregation of warriors.

The exhibition had been witnessed by several hundred lesser warriors, and they immediately broke into demands for a repetition, which the chieftain ordered him to make; but John was hungry and thirstier than ever. He determined on the spot that his only chance for satisfaction was to demand the consideration from these creatures which they would not grant voluntarily. He ignored the repeated commands to "sak," and each time they were made he motioned to his mouth and rubbed his stomach. That ought to get the message across no matter what planet he was on.

Tars Tarkas and the chief exchanged a few words, and the former, called to a young female among the throng, giving her some instructions. He motioned John to accompany her. He grasped her proffered arm and she steered him across the plaza toward a large building on the far side.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: A Fight That Won Friends

His fair companion, a young girl named Sola, was about eight feet tall, having just arrived at maturity, but not yet to her full height. She was of a light olive-green color, with a smooth, glossy skin. Somehow she seemed handsomer than the other Martians. That puzzled John until he narrowed it to the lack of her people's characteristic worn in frown.

Sola belonged to the retinue of Tars Tarkas. She conducted John to a spacious chamber in one of the buildings fronting on the plaza, which, from the litter of silks and furs upon the floor, he took for the sleeping quarters of several of the natives.

A great number of large windows served both a useful and decorative purpose. Sunlight streamed in through these openings, casting an ample light into every corner. The walls were beautifully ornamented by mural paintings and mosaics, but upon all there seemed to rest that indefinable touch of the finger of antiquity which convinced him that the architects and builders of these extraordinary palaces had nothing in common with the crude half-brutes which now occupied them.

Sola motioned for him to seat himself upon a pile of silks near the center of the room, and, turning, made a peculiar hissing sound, as though signaling to someone in an adjoining room. Responding to her call, in waddled a creature he could hardly have imagined. Ten short legs carried the beast in, where it hunkered down before the girl like an obedient puppy. About the size of a Shetland pony, its head bore a slight resemblance to that of a frog, except that the jaws were equipped with three rows of long, sharp tusks.

Sola stared into the brute's wicked-looking eyes, muttered a word or two of command, pointed to John, and left the chamber. The moment her shadow disappeared, he turned his attention to his watcher and swallowed hard, wondering what this ferocious monstrosity might do when left alone in such close proximity to such tender morsel of meat as himself. His fears were groundless. The beast, after surveying him intently for a moment, crossed the room and planted himself in front of the only street side exit, circling about several times before laying full length across the threshold.

While Sola lingered he took some time to more minutely examine the cozy dungeon in which he seemed likely to spend his captivity. The mural painting depicted magnificent scenes of mountains, rivers, oceans, trees and flowers, winding roadways, and sun-kissed gardens - scenes which might have portrayed earthly views but for the different colorings of the vegetation. Each panorama was a masterwork wrought in such exquisite detail that they almost lived, so subtle the atmosphere, so perfect the technique. Yet nowhere was there a representation of a living being, either human or otherwise, by which he could guess at the likeness of those other, perhaps extinct denizens of Mars.

His fancy ran riot in wild conjectures on the possible answers to these mysteries. Perhaps if he gathered enough questions together they would begin answering each other. But just then the clank of bowls interrupted his train of thought and he turned to see Sola returning, bearing food and drink on a crude tray. She placed them on the floor beside him, and seating herself a short ways off the green lady regarded him intently. Sola was earnestly curious about him, but not in the way the Martian warriors had been. She seemed less interested in what he could do than who he was.

Her seldom blinking stare unnerved him and he turned away. The food she brought him consisted of about a pound of some solid substance of the consistency of cheese and almost tasteless, while the liquid was apparently milk from some animal. Lifting the dish containing the latter to his lips he took a taste. It was not unpleasant, though slightly acid, and he was too parched to complain. It came, as he later learned, not from an animal, but from a large plant which distilled its plentiful supply of milk from the products of the soil, the moisture of the air, and the sun's nourishing rays.

The meal restored his vigor to a great degree, but the heat of the day and his long trek left him truly drained. He stretched out upon the silks and had soon fallen sound asleep.

000

Several hours later, John awoke to full darkness and the sharp chill of night. He shifted uncomfortably before noticing that someone had thrown a fur blanket over him, but at some point during his restless sleep it had become partially dislodged. In that total darkness he fumbled at the covering but could not see to replace it. Suddenly a hand reached out and pulled the fur over him, shortly afterwards adding another. He presumed that his watchful guardian was Sola, and soon that deduction was confirmed.

"J'che-hunta," she said in a soft, almost motherly tone. Among all the green he had not seen such a display of sympathy or kindliness.

And a good thing, too, for the Martian nights were extremely cold. Its rarer atmosphere simply could not retain heat like Earth's upper heavens. As a result, the fur blankets they used were almost a necessity to make it through the long frigid gloom.

John lay awake for a few minutes pondering his uncertain situation and the world he found himself on. Outside, the twin guardians of the night shown brilliantly. He thought he could detected a noticeable change in the faint shadows as the nearer moon rushed onward in its mad hurtling across the nocturnal countryside.

If he remembered his astronomy correctly, both of Mars' moons revolved vastly nearer her than Earth's lone satellite. The nearer moon of Mars made a complete revolution around the planet in a little over seven and one-half hours, so that she might be seen skimming through the sky like some huge meteor two or three times each night.

After the blankets warmed him, John drifted off again, not waking until the very crack of dawn. The air immediately began to warm. He cast off his coverings as soon as it became light enough to see, and since he had neglected to remove his boots before falling asleep, he rose to take in the rest of the chamber.

The other occupants of the room, five of them, were all females. They still breathed in the stertorous ease of deep slumber, nearly hidden by a motley array of silks and furs. Across the threshold stretched the guardian brute, just as he had last seen him on the preceding day. Apparently he had not moved a muscle. He did not even seem to blink in that sleepless watch, his eyes fairly glued upon the human. John fell to wondering just what might happen if he should try to escape.

His friends always told him that he was prone to seek trouble where wiser men would have left well enough alone. They were probably right. And if the old saying of "fools rush in where angels fear to tread" proved accurate, John hated to think about what fine words would grace his epitaph. Still, he was ignorant of this land and there were things worth knowing. It occurred to him that the surest way of learning the exact attitude of this animal toward him would be to attempt to leave the room. He felt fairly secure that he could escape this squat, waddling thing should he pursue once he made it outside the building. Strange to say, he had begun to take great pride in his ability as a jumper.

He gained his feet slowly and carefully, only to see that his watcher did the same. John advanced toward him. He had become fairly acclimated to Mars' gravity, but still felt more comfortable moving at a shuffling gait so he could retain his balance. John neared the door, surprised to find that the brute backed cautiously away out of the way allowing him to pass sans protest. When he reached the open he then fell in behind John and followed at about ten paces as the human made his way along the deserted street.

_I guess he's just supposed to protect me,_ John thought.

Evidently these green men were not morning people. The sun had risen fully above the horizon, and yet not a denizen of this archaic metropolis stirred from the ancient buildings. If not for the creature drooling at his heels he could have escaped without a single hitch and been long gone before his captors managed to pull together a search party.

Relentless quiet ruled that Martian morning, indistinguishable from any daybreak that planet had ever known, save that an alien walked its dusty surface. It gave him time to think for the first time in days, and to tell the truth, he did not relish the experience. Up until then, he had been so busy trying to cope with this improbable journey and trying to stay alive. Now he walked in isolated emptiness. At times like these it was impossible not to think back over the road he had been following.

After a lifetime of combat and fighting, warfare drew him back to his own homeland, and it had been more heartbreaking than anything he ever experienced. Conflict that pitted brother against brother and father against son was enough to make his stomach turn – all the worse for their being his fellow countrymen. He had seen a cannon ball decapitate two men in a passing, and the shrapnel of a stray bullet slice a man's throat so messily that he passed away before a medic could possibly reach him.

John Carter had prided himself on always struggling for the side of freedom and justice. Old comrades had been mowed down in the crimson fields, often by Yankees who, in turn, shed their lifeblood upon the bodies of their fallen enemies. John threw himself into the fray in countless skirmishes. But in these last few years… what had he really been fighting for?

It felt so futile, and in the end, John felt no less futile when it came down to it. At least Powell fought by his side in those desperate days. Now even he was dead.

John felt his throat tighten.

_Ah, Jim. You deserved a better end than that_, he thought in regret._ If I had been in time you might have survived and I wouldn't be wandering this frightful place alone_.

Just then his canine-like guard sprang in front of him and bared down, uttering strange sounds and baring his ugly and ferocious tusks. John looked up in surprise to find that he had meandered all the way to the edge of the city. While the creature guarding him might have been instructed to give him a wide berth, this clearly marked the boundary of his prescribed stamping grounds.

Well, this was as good a time as any to shake off this thickset animal, or at least to find out how difficult it would be, and using him for a bit of sport might help shake off John's blues. He rushed toward him, and when almost upon him sprang into the air, alighting far beyond the border of the city.

The thing wheeled instantly and charged John with the most appalling speed he had ever beheld, churning up moss and dirt in a straight line that would end in tackling the human to the ground or worse. The color drained from John's face. He had thought his watchdog's short legs a bar to swiftness, but had he been coursing with greyhounds the latter would have appeared as though asleep on a door mat. No wonder he had been left under this thing's watchful eye.

There was no way he could escape the fangs of the beast if he attempted to run or dodge him. At the last possible second, he met the charge by repeating his earlier stunt, leaping over him just as massive jowls snapped. A rope of slaver hit John in the leg as he soared easily over his watchdog's head. Ignoring its damp warmness, he darted for the city the instant he hit the ground, reaching it far ahead of his pursuer.

As the beast came tearing in his wake, John spied a balcony extending from the building nearest him and leaped for it in a single bound.

Grasping the balustrade, he pulled himself up and rolled onto a kneeling posture on the terrace. Laughing aloud, John gazed down at the baffled animal below. His exultation was short-lived, however, for scarcely had he begun to stand when huge, fur covered fingers wrapped around his neck from behind and dragged him violently into the room.

000

Sola groaned, dragged her tall, skinny frame reluctantly out from the warm covers and stared about her, certain that something was wrong. She blinked, the protective gauze of her third eyelids retracting slowly to let in the early morning sun.

Her fellow companions were still sound asleep, nor did she detect any lurking assassins in the chamber's receding shadows. Nothing appeared out of place. After knuckling the sleep grit out of her eyes, Sola's gaze drifted to the street side doorway and breath caught in her throat. The calot she had ordered to watch the man thing was gone, and there could only be one reason for that.

Whirling around, the Thark had her worst nightmare confirmed – the prisoner was missing. That little man could not possibly know of the dangers ever present in these abandoned cities or he would never have ventured out alone in these early daybreak hours.

If he escaped, or no less terrible, if he was killed by the purported denizens of this abandoned place, Lorquas Ptomel would sentence her to be torn apart by wild thoats at the next Great Games. Or worse still, she might lose what little respect she garnered from Tars Tarkas over the years. The very fact that the prisoner had been placed under her care was proof of his regard for her service. But all of that would end if she failed to retrieve her charge in one piece.

Sola gained her feet, waking one of her companions by the simple expedient of a kick. As the older woman grumbled a curse at her young interloper, Sola silenced her with a gesture.

"This is more important than sleep," she said sharply. "Where is Ear-Rat?"

000

John muttered the first English profanity ever to disturb the air of Mars. He felt himself thrown violently upon his back, the air driven from his lungs from the sheer viciousness of the blow. He lay there stunned for a heartbeat and beheld standing over him a colossal ape-like creature, white and shaggy except for a massive, hairless, leathery chest. It more closely resembled the men of Earth than it did the Martians he had seen, but these things were base animals, and no denying it.

The creature held him pinioned to the ground beneath one huge foot, bearing almost more of its weight on John's chest than he could stand. It bared its massive fangs in a roaring snarl, hate and loathing and hunger written largely on its bestial face. Hot breath struck John in the face like a birthing slap, stealing his faculties as another of the creatures lumbered up behind him, hoisting a sizeable chunk of broken masonry with which it evidently intended to brain him.

Their snouts and teeth were strikingly like those of an African gorilla. Standing erect, the beasts were nearly as tall as the green Martians, but bulkier and feral, possessing a second set of arms just like their, and he hesitated to admit it, more civilized counterparts.

The white ape shifted the weight of its bludgeon, preparing to smash its victim's head. The pressure on John's chest nearly crushed his lungs, and he was on the verge of unconsciousness when a bolt of myriad-legged horror hurled itself through the doorway full upon the breast of his executioner. With a shriek of fear the ape holding John stumbled backward, catching its legs on the balcony railing before it tumbled over the edge, a loud scream ringing out until it punctuated with a thud.

Blessed relief, John took a deep breath of pure air, slowly regaining his senses. Enraged by the interruption, the ape's mate closed in a terrific death struggle with his preserver, which was nothing less than John's faithful watch-thing.

Letting go of its bludgeon, the monster gripped its attacker by one leg and pulled hard, striking the animal with its other three arms. John's eyes went wide as the shattered marble plummeted toward him. He rolled hard, twisting around into a kneeling position, catching his balance as the stone cracked the floor right where his head had been.

As quickly as possible he gained his feet and backpedalled against a nearby wall to get out of the way of the thrashing hulk. The ape flung John's rescuer off it, beating its chest in a fearful tattoo. The guard beast was up again in an instant and lunged at the gorilla-like monster. Brute strength met ferocious agility as these two creatures clashed head on. The smaller creature sunk his triple rows of fangs full into his opponent's breast.

Two of the ape's great arms, backed by muscles far transcending those of the Martian men, locked the throat of John guardian, choking out his life by inches. The other two grasped its attacker's body, bending the beast double at the neck, where John expected the latter to fall limp at the end of a broken neck at any moment.

But first blood came when the hound's teeth proved tougher that his antagonist's leathery hide. In attempting to dislodge him, the ape accomplished nothing more than tearing away the entire front of its breast, which vise-like jaws refused to release. Bellows of pain flooded the chamber, white fur running scarlet in damp patches.

The two combatants rolled back and forth upon the floor, growling, spitting noises rumbling from both as they sought for the upper hand. John saw the larger creature, given its strength and superior hold, would win out in the end. The eyes of his beast were already bulging from their sockets as he asphyxiated, a trickle of blood flowing from the poor thing's nostrils. Both creatures had weakened perceptibly but it was no contest at all.

Suddenly John came to himself, instinct and training forcing him into action. His face darkened, duty calling him to come to the aid of the one that saved his life. He seized the sizable weight of a broken table leg and swung it with all the power his earthly arms could muster, crashing his makeshift weapon full upon the head of the ape. There came the satisfying crack of a fractured skull and it dropped to the ground on its back, stone dead.

John stood there, marveling at his own strength, before he caught his breath and turned his attention to his watchdog. The brute, relinquishing his hold on the dead ape, rolled to the floor, panting heavily.

About to go to his assistance, John froze at the sound of an enraged snarl. It had been too much to hope the ape's mate had been killed in the fall. Scarcely had the body settled when this second monster came barreling toward the chamber's interior door. The thing shouldered its way through the entrance, roaring as it perceived its lifeless fellow stretched upon the floor. The sight staggered its charge for an instant when, frothing at the mouth in the extremity of rage, it came at John at a frightful gait.

This larger ape, a male from its bulk and appearance, would make short work of the human in its wrath. John never hesitated to stand and fight under normal circumstances. However, pitting his puny strength against the iron muscles and ferocity of this enraged denizen of an unknown world seemed courting sudden death.

He still stood near the window and could easily leap back down to the street. Once there, he could regain the plaza. Let this creature overtake him then!

That thought checked at the sound of a pitiful whine stemming from near the body on the floor. John had already turned toward the window, but his eyes flicked to take in the prostrate form of his erstwhile guardian. The poor thing lay panting upon the floor of the chamber, his great eyes fastened upon him in wretched appeal for protection.

Even if John had not owed the animal his life, he could hardly have withstood that look. It had something of sad world weariness, but no less of a hope for life. John made his decision on the spot.

Did he not still hold a rude club? Then he would fight as long as he could remain standing. The human squared his jaw and spun to meet the charge of the infuriated bull ape. If he used a frontal assault, the creature would likely swat away his first blow. Stepping forward, Carter flung his weapon as heavily as he could muster. It struck the giant just below the knees, provoking a howl of pain and rage, so throwing it off his balance that it lunged full upon John with four arms wide stretched to ease his fall.

John twisted easily out of the way, his enhanced agility lending him wings, and the ape crashed head first into the wall behind him hard enough to raise a cloud of stone dust. Staggering back like a punch drunk prizefighter, it tried desperately to steady itself. John ran toward it, leaping into the air and landing a double kick to its chest that sent it flying.

Crashing through ancient furniture, the ape landed on the other side of the apartment, smashing into a heap of stacked jars. They shattered and rolled upon it, obscuring the hairy beast entirely.

Silence settled over the chamber. The only sound which remained was the human's heavy breathing. John heaved a sigh. He wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow, turning to attend to his watchdog's –

The mountain of shattered crockery exploded, heaved aside effortlessly as the bull ape lurched to its feet. John faltered, struck dumb in sheer surprise. When the creature saw him, it hunched down on four of its six limbs, hurtling toward him, a steam locomotive with its firebox loaded for bear, determined to squash this stubborn insect that would dare oppose it.

John leaped to one side, throwing himself into a forward roll. The ape could not check its momentum, but reached out with one of its huge arms. A cuff to the legs turned John's roll into an indecorous spin. He landed on one side, in pain but undaunted. He jumped to his feet just as the ape swung to face him.

Again, as on the preceding day, John fell back on earthly tactics. He swung his fist full upon the point of the creature's chin. The ape reeled back, and John followed up on his advantage with a smashing left to the pit of its stomach.

The ape coughed, gurgling as it wheezed for air, and teetered on wavering legs. Then John sidestepped as it fell upon the floor, doubled up with pain and gasping. Leaping over the creature's prostrate body, John retrieved the cudgel from where it lay and finished the monster before it could regain his feet.

000

As the last blow fell a low laugh rang out behind him, and, turning, John beheld Tars Tarkas, Sola, and other warriors standing in the doorway of the chamber. As his eyes met theirs John was, for the second time, the recipient of their zealously guarded applause.

Evidently noticing his absence Sola had been quick to summon Tars Tarkas, who set out beside handful of warriors to search for him. As they approached the limits of the city they had observed the bull ape as it bolted into the building, frothing in rage.

They followed, thinking it possible that the creature's rampage might prove a clue to John's whereabouts, and had witnessed most of his battle against it. This encounter, together with his struggle against the Martian warrior on the previous day and his feats of jumping placed John upon a high pedestal in their regard. Apparently devoid of all the finer sentiments of friendship, love, or affection, these people worshipped physical prowess and bravery. So long as he continued to impress and amuse them by repeated examples of skill, strength, and courage, he reckoned he had little to fear from the green men themselves.

At least for the time being.

Sola, John noticed, was the only Martian whose face had not been twisted in laughter as he battled for his life. On the contrary, she was sober with apparent anxiety. So soon as she could, she rushed to him so she could examine his body for wounds or injuries. Satisfying herself that he had come off with little more than a few knocks she smiled quietly and placed a hand on his shoulder to guide him back out of the chamber.

But John halted her when Tars Tarkas and the other warriors made their way over to the now rapidly reviving brute which had saved his life. They entered into a deep, albeit sparsely worded argument. They seemed in disagreement on some course of action, though he understood none of the words. Finally one of them addressed him, but remembering John's ignorance of his language turned back to Tars Tarkas. With a word and gesture, the great warrior gave some command to one of his fellows and turned to follow Sola and her charge from the room.

The hairs on the back of John's neck stood on end as some presage of what was going to happen flashed before him. There seemed something menacing in their attitude toward his watchdog. He lingered despite Sola's urging, until he the learned truth one way or the other. It was well he did so, for the warrior drew an evil looking pistol from its holster, aiming it at the animal's head.

"No!" John shouted, flinging himself forward to strike up his arm.

To the green man, John must have appeared to materialize from the ether. But faithful to his order, the warrior pulled the trigger just as his prisoner swatted his weapon into the air. The bullet struck the wooden casing of a window, exploding as it blew a hole completely through the wood and masonry.

Kneeling beside the struggling animal, John helped him to his feet. Licking the human's hand in feeble gratitude, he staggered upright, managing just fine once he got his legs under him. Patting the beast's head, John motioned for him to follow at heel, ignoring questioning looks his captors gave him. The Martians simply stared at him in ludicrous surprise, not even muttering a word of protest. The warrior whose gun he had struck up turned enquiringly to Tars Tarkas, but the latter signed that John be left to his own devices, inscrutable though the might be. So the three returned to street level, John's great beast following closely in a protective bearing, and Sola grasping him tightly by the arm.

John couldn't help chuckling to himself. He had at least two friends on Mars; a young woman who watched over him with motherly solicitude, and a dumb brute which probably held more love and loyalty in its poor ugly carcass than could have been found in the entire race of green Martians who roved the dead sea bottoms of Mars.

Patting his watchdog on the head, John mused to himself, "You know, old boy? It occurs to me that you need a name."

They had reached the dusty streets and sunlight warmed John's bruises relieving the stiffness from his tired body. The creature looked up at him in mute inquiry, almost as if understanding and expecting him to continue.

Thinking it over, John decided a human name would not do. In fact, nothing earthly seemed appropriate. Despite the occasional parallel, this alien world was full of things the human could make neither heads nor tales of. Only something peculiar could complement this mighty beast.

"How," he paused, testing the sound of a name in his mind. "How about Woola?"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: The Battle in the Sky

Breakfast was an exact replica of supper from the preceding day. After John choked it down, Sola escorted him to the plaza where he discovered the entire community engaged in watching or helping at the harnessing of huge mastodonian animals to great three-wheeled chariots. John counted about a hundred of these vehicles, each drawn by a single animal, which, from the looks of them, might easily have drawn the entire wagon train at full load.

He wondered if the green men were preparing to go to war, for the transports themselves were large, gorgeously decorated, and conspicuous with racks for storing weapons. But strange to say, the men wanted little to do with this matter.

While a few of the chiefs and a handful of warriors had gathered as escort, most of the caravan consisted of women and youths. A female Martian seated herself in each chariot, loaded down by ornaments of metal, silks, and furs. Upon the back of each of the mammoth beasts perched a young Martian driver. The whole thing reminded John a bit of the elephants maintained by East Indian potentates.

The riders were ants compared to the hairless behemoths they rode upon. Like the saddle animals upon which the warriors were mounted, the heavier draft animals wore neither bit nor bridle, but were clearly guided somehow even if not by visible means.

As the cavalcade organized itself into a military formation, Sola grabbed her charge by the arm and half dragged him into an empty chariot. In mere minutes, they proceeded toward the gate by which he first entered the city the day before.

Had it only been a day? It felt like a lifetime ago.

Tars Tarkas was virtually the vice-chieftain of the community, and a man of great ability as a statesman and warrior. He rode at the head of the caravan keeping the procession in good order. And behind him ranged row after row of the tow beasts, five abreast.

Everyone - men, women, and children - were heavily armed. All but John, that is. At the tail of each chariot trotted a Martian hound. Woola hurried proudly behind his.

Their way led out across the little valley before the city, through the hills, and down into the dead sea bottom which he had traversed on his journey from the incubator to the plaza. The incubator, John's instinct told him, was the terminus of their journey this day. Part of his mind began to question this strange intuition that had cropped up in the last day or so. He hesitated to rely upon it, especially in this unfamiliar place and among wild animals and wilder men. Still, it had not failed him thus far, and what else did he have to rely on besides his wits?

The entire cavalcade broke into a mad gallop as soon as they reached the level expanse of sea bottom. John's mind began to wander as his body fell into the rhythm of the journey, not unlike how he passed a long horseback ride back home. Home. Would he ever make it back there, or was he fated to travel the barren wastes of this dying planet until death released him to embark on one final journey and an even stranger adventure?

He tried to picture himself ten years down the road, still trapped among these people. The notion depressed him beyond anything. He might have felt alone in the bloody fields of the War, but at least then he fought alongside people with whom he shared a common pedigree. Even assuming these people continued to let him live that long, a prospect by no means secure, he must make some bid for freedom.

Woola snorted and sneezed, waking John from his trance. He looked up to find they were within sight of their goal, the Martian incubator. Having assured themselves that all was well the day before, the barbarians had returned in force to collect the young. A wise strategy to be sure, though John couldn't help wondering why the incubator was not built closer to the city, or within its bounds for that matter. They were built in remote fastness where there was little or no likelihood of their being discovered by other tribes. The result of such a catastrophe would mean no children in the community for another five years.

On reaching it the chariots were parked with soldierly precision in an englobement formation surrounding the enclosure to protect it while they gathered the spoils. Half a dozen warriors, headed by Tars Tarkas and another, lesser chief dismounted and advanced toward it. John saw Tars Tarkas explaining something to the men who followed him, pointing back at the human once or twice.

He was soon informed on the subject of their conversation. Calling to Sola, Tars Tarkas signed for her to send her charge to him. John had more or less mastered the intricacies of walking under Martian conditions and did not wait for the green girl to lead him, soon reaching the side of the incubator where the warriors stood.

A glance showed him that all but a very few eggs had hatched, the incubator being fairly alive with the swarming little devils. They ranged in height from two to two and a half feet, and moved restlessly about the enclosure as though prowling for food.

As he came to a halt before him, Tars Tarkas pointed over the incubator and said, "Sak."

John realized that none of the men here had been in the audience chamber when he performed for Lorquas Ptomel. They clearly wanted a repeat presentation. John shrugged, but only inwardly. In all honesty his novel prowess as a jumper gave him no end of satisfaction. As such, he put on a show and leaped entirely over the parked chariots on the far side of the incubator.

As he returned, Tars Tarkas grunted something, and turning to his warriors gave a few words of command relative to the incubator. They were slow to respond, but when he repeated the order they paid no further attention to John. Since they did not wave him away, he kept close to watch what they were doing. One warrior took a flat, spike tipped mallet and punched a hole in the wall of the incubator. He did so again and again until he had a perforated half circle in the shape of a crude doorway.

As he did this, Tars Tarkas turned to remount his bizarre steed and John noticed something peculiar. Not touching the beast, without saying so much as a word, the green giant cast a look at his great animal and it dropped to its belly, laying its head on the sward in obedience to some unspoken command. Tars Tarkas hopped upon the creature's back and it rose to its feet once more, snorting in servile annoyance. John frowned at this, but filed the anomaly away to think through later.

Finally the warrior wrenched away the section of wall, creating an opening large enough to permit of the exit of the young Martians. Out poured the infants, if they could be called such, for they were considerably further advanced than a newborn human could ever be. The women and youths gathered around the opening, forming two solid walls blocking the infants from dodging beneath a chariot or out into the desert itself. As the little Martians scampered, feral as deer, their wranglers snatched, seized, and tackled them into submission in one wild free-for-all.

Not a single toddling thing escaped, and soon all the little fellows had left the enclosure and been appropriated by some youth or female who immediately fell out of line and returned to their respective chariots, though all of them eventually ended up as the charge of one of the women.

John's heart went out to the little creatures. On their advent into the world they came seeking love and affection only to be greeted by calloused, grim hearts and stark coldness. Not to say that the adult Martians were unnecessarily or intentionally cruel to the young, but theirs was a hard and pitiless struggle for existence upon a dying planet, each year forcing its inhabitants to do more with less to the point where the support of each additional life meant an added tax upon the community into which it had been thrown. Thus what should have been a blessing became a joyless venture that forced each communal member to calculate that they must make do with fewer mouthfuls.

The ceremony was finally over. Only a handful of the large ovoids remained unbroken. If the remaining eggs ever hatched they knew nothing of it. Their offspring might inherit and transmit the tendency to prolonged incubation, further upsetting the efficiency of hatchings. They were not wanted.

By the time he made it back to Sola he found her standing in their chariot with a hideous little hexruped clutched tightly in her arms.

oOo

After their return to the dead city, a strange surprise awaited John. A warrior approached bearing the arms, ornaments, and full accouterments of his kind. He presented these to the captive with a few unintelligible words, and a bearing at once respectful and menacing.

Later, Sola, with the aid of several of the other women, remodeled the trappings to fit his lesser proportions, mainly cutting them down and sewing them until they fit him like a glove. This was fortunate since his own clothes, worn from mining, fighting, and a crawl through the desert, had barely qualified as rags. Truthfully, the leather harness and breach cloth was little better, but it would do. After they completed the work John Carter went about garbed in all the panoply of war.

He passed several days in comparative idleness. On the day following their return, all the warriors rode forth early in the morning and did not return until just before darkness fell. They had been to the subterranean vaults in which the eggs were kept and transported them to the incubator, there to be walled up and hatched by the sun's rays after a period of another five years. In all probability it would not be visited again during that period.

Sola's duties were now doubled, as she was compelled to care for the young Martian as well as for John. But neither required much attention, and as they were both about equally advanced in Martian education, Sola took it upon herself to train the two together.

Under his warden's care, the next few days saw a tremendous change in the baby Martian. He now stood erect at a little over three feet, strong and physically perfect. It seemed the little fellow was bigger at every meal, and he ate more than three human children of a comparable height.

As it turned out, the work of rearing young, green Martians consisted solely in teaching them to talk and use the weapons of warfare with which they were loaded down from the very first year of their lives. Coming from eggs in which they incubated for five years, they were entirely unknown to their mothers, who, in turn, would have had difficulty in pointing out the fathers with any degree of accuracy.

They were the common children of the community, and their education devolved upon the females who chanced to capture them as they exited the incubator. From birth they knew no father or mother love. They did not know the meaning of the word home. Only youth protected them until they could demonstrate by their physique and ferocity that they were fit to live. John believed this horrible system, carried on for ages, the direct culprit for the loss of all the finer feelings and higher humanitarian instincts among these poor creatures.

As John suspected, the Martian language was extremely simple – the simplest tongue he had ever known. In fact, it was too simple and he could not help feeling he was missing something that should be obvious, for the youth could soon communicate better than John.

That bothered him until Sola brought the topic up herself. "Your words have holes," she asked. Or at least that was how John interpreted it. "Why no mind speak?"

"What?"

Sola gave him an incredulous look, planting her lower arms on her hips as though she thought the human might be mocking her. John's brow furrowed in confusion. He tried to reason out her meaning to no avail.

Later, during a practice swordfight, a chance clash left a nick in the Martian youth's practice blade. Turning to Sola, he gave her a sharp look, but only muttered "Get." Immediately, the young woman turned and retrieved a whetstone and he went to work removing the burr from his injured weapon.

_Telepathy?_ John wondered. It explained a few of the oddities he had encountered since his arrival. Certain fringe scientists back on Earth hinted at such things, but few in the western world took their claims all that seriously. If he ever made it back home he would have some food for thought for the believer and sceptic alike.

He began to understand the strange, almost supernatural intuition that had guided him since his arrival on Mars. Something in the minds of these nomadic barbarians had stimulated latent possibilities in his own brain that he had only begun to realize. And Sola had not bothered to teach it to him because it came as second nature to these people. No wonder she didn't understand his total lack of comprehension.

But characteristic of her, when he conveyed his inexperience, she went to work to teach him, never complaining for a moment. In a week he could make all his wants known and understand nearly everything spoken in his presence. Under Sola's tutelage he developed a certain level of telepathic powers, not identical to what Sola herself displayed, but no less uncanny. It was hard, never so seamless as his teacher, but useful. Soon, using his mind and senses in concert, he could discern practically everything that went on around him.

What surprised Sola most was that while John could catch telepathic messages easily from others, often when they were not intended for him, no one could read a jot from his brain under any circumstances. His mind was the figurative closed book. At first this vexed him, for it meant he had to use considerably more words to make his meaning clear. Before long, however, he grasped the undoubted advantage it gave him over a harsh race whose intentions toward him were by no means certain.

Sola's students learned quickly, and the two of them had considerable amusement, at least John did, he could never be completely sure about the Martian, over the keen rivalry they displayed.

Thus lead to the day Lorquas Ptomel set for the community to return to their headquarters, and an event that would change John's life forever.

oOo

The horde of green Martians which John had fallen into the hands of consisted of some thirty thousand souls, a small part of the Tharks, the people to which these barbarians owed allegiance. They roamed an enormous tract of arid and semi-arid land, bounded on the east and west by two large fertile tracts.

As the sun rose and drank up the mist, the Martians organized into their martial ranks to prepare for an immediate departure. John had no idea how long a journey lay ahead of them, but his captors' preparations led him to believe it was of no short extent.

Tars Tarkas and his Jed, or overlord, Lorquas Ptomel, directed their subordinates to pack every article of value that was not nailed down and more than a few that were. The loading of animals, carts, and chariots went on for some time, deliberate and efficient. Around noon the caravan began to move, but scarcely had the head of the procession emerged onto open ground before the city than orders were given for an abrupt and urgent return.

One of the scouts pointed to the sky. John followed his gaze and could scarcely credit his senses. For what he saw, though miles distant, looked like a bird so large it rivaled the Rocs of legend.

"What in blazes?" he muttered in good Virginian English.

It flew through the sky in a majestic glide, soaring on wings that gleamed like fire in the morning sun. It was beautiful and graceful, an amazing testament to the eccentricity and magnificence of nature as it split the thin air of age-old Mars. Or so it seemed at first glance.

John frowned. A few of the more exotic birds of Earth possessed feathers that gleamed and sparkled in the sunlight. This creature, though blue-grey, shone like polished metal, or possibly more like glass. And though he mistrusted his senses, the human began to doubt that this airborne thing was actually a living organism at all.

Though its lithe, willowy lines mimicked the symmetry of life, its lack of visible movement gave the lie to its vivacity.

It was a flying machine, something out of a penny magazine.

Sola tugged on his shoulder, urging John to follow her. He hesitated, eyeing a triad of specks that materialized behind the resplendent aerial creature. A flash burst from one of the trailing ships and an explosion rocked the forward craft. It swung on its axis, bucking midair in the best impression of a hawk imitating a spooked mule John had ever laid witness to.

By now Sola became urgent and John allowed himself to be led to cover. As though trained for years for this particular development, the green Martians melted like mist into the spacious doorways of the nearby buildings, until, in less than three minutes, the entire cavalcade of chariots, mastodons, and mounted warriors vanished to the eye of an outsider.

The two entered a building upon the outskirts of the city. In a touch of irony, John recognized it as the same one he encountered the apes in. He mounted to an upper floor and peered from the window out over the valley and the hills beyond. The huge craft was much closer now, fleeing for its life across the wastes amid a steady stream of explosive fire. Elegant, broad, and painted in an iridescent gray that caught more light than John had seen in rainbows, the airship raced over the crest of the nearest hill, streaming smoke and cinders from rents in its steely hull. Following it came another, and another, and another, swinging low above the ground.

Were the green men allied to the pursued? The pursuers? Neither? Time alone would tell.

oOo

Burning fumes swirled about the airship's bridge, giving the illusion of playful wraiths dancing before the panicked flight crew. The engines labored in a battle against gravity in a losing attempt to keep the craft airborne. And the longer they stayed up, the harder it would be when the ship finally crashed, but landing meant worse than death at the hand of their pursuers.

Dejah Thoris clawed her way back to the main control panel, the first to her feet besides the pilot, who miraculously managed to keep his seat at the helm during the last round of shelling. The entire vessel shuddered deep in its bowels. She was threatening to break apart. The ship was dying, precisely the fate of them all if crash-landed at this altitude.

"Send a distress call back to Helium!" Dejah Thoris ordered, anxiety cracking in her voice. "My father must know what has happened here!"

"Princess!" another man shouted over the din. "I've already tried. The signal is being jammed. We were straining our range as it is so there is no way of knowing how much of a message got out before they blocked it."

She wiped a bead of moisture from her cheek and stared hard at whatever readouts and apparatus remained marginally functional. "Blasted Zodangans are bloody efficient."

"Indeed, Princess."

Dejah Thoris looked out of the cracked forward window at the trackless dead seas that stretched out in every direction. A feeling of failure came crashing in on her. This was supposed to be a research mission, not a raid. The three pronged ambush had caught them completely off guard – caught her off guard. Which meant whatever happened here today would be on her head.

"Tell the rear gunners not to let up for a moment!" ordered the princess.

The captain nodded. "I will, though I don't know how many of them are left. Most of the gun emplacements to stern have been blown out."

The air about her seemed to grow cold.

Then ahead of them appeared a tiny speck beyond the distant hills. Gleaming and white it stood out from the miles of ruddy and reddish yellow groundcover. A desperate and not entirely sane plan formed in her mind's eye.

She pointed. "That city over there!"

"Korad," the navigator interjected.

"Steer toward it!" Dejah ordered.

The vessel's commander clutched the stanchion to which he clung all the more tightly. "Princess, I trust you are joking."

Dejah Thoris pursed her lips. "Not a bit of it. They are larger and better armored, but we are more maneuverable. If we get them to chase us between some of the taller buildings they'll rip their ships apart."

The older man considered her commands for a few brief seconds. "They might just drop bombs on us."

She turned to face him, grim and steely, glad he could not read her emotions when she chose it. "Captain, those are warships. Together they outgun us ten to one. If they wanted us dead we would be already." Which was the little white truth she counted on to keep them all breathing.

It all made sense to her now. Zodanga wanted prisoners, and she was a hostage of more than common value, especially in the estimate of Sab Than.

"All right; we descend," the captain said. "Everybody grab onto something and may our first ancestors watch over us."

"If anybody wants to see me in the next reincarnation," called the navigator, "feel free to pay me a visit where the river Iss empties into the lost sea of Korus."

Another round of artillery fire sprayed around the craft but struck dirt far ahead of them. The airship rocketed forward, slowly losing altitude in a controlled drop intended to make them appear even more damaged than they were. Easier said than done given that, as things stood, a stiff breeze might shake them apart.

A bird plummeting from the heavens, the airship dipped toward the ancient city of Korad. Finally, more by good luck than good management, the navigator steered them on a direct line, dodging enemy fire as best he could. That lasted for a while, and then they started corkscrewing. The princess could see the instrumentation panel from where she hung on for dear life. It was going absolutely completely mad. For an instant Dejah Thoris could see low hills ahead out the window in front, followed by a whirl of ground, boulders, and cloudless sky.

She shut her eyes and commended her spirit to her ancestors. When they weren't along to collect her she opened her eyes again. They were steady once more, bearing down on their target at half the speed of sound.

Heart hammering in her chest, Dejah Thoris reached over and patted the navigator on the shoulder. "Just a little further and-"

The sentence died on her lips as a deluge of rifle fire opened up from the city. Bullets tore into the already damaged hull, taking out the few remaining gun emplacements, the targeting equipment, and exploding in the wings between the lateral alula and primary convert plates, making their already impaired maneuverability hopeless.

The navigator cried out as the forward window shattered. He slumped at his station, blood from a bullet wound oozing onto the controls.

Dejah Thoris made a grab for the control stick, but the deck lurched and she found herself falling toward a rear bulkhead that had suddenly become a floor. She struck hard, her vision blurring and a pain in her stomach made her want to curl into a ball and stay that way.

A moment later, in apparent defiance of gravitation, she saw rocks rushing toward her out of the shattered front window. Then she realized it was level ground and they were coming down at it nose first. By sheer luck the ship partly leveled out. It struck, bounced, and hit again. She was conscious up to the third time they hit.

oOo

Each of the pursuing craft carried a strange banner swung from stem to stern. That much showed plainly even at the distance. The fleeing craft presumably had one once but it might have been torn asunder in the chase. John saw figures crowding at gun ports upon every ship, firing volley after volley into each other.

Whether they had discovered the Thark settlement or were looking to take shelter in the deserted city he could not say, but in any event they received a rude reception for their pains. Without so much as a warning the green Martian warriors fired a terrific volley from the windows of the buildings facing the little valley across which the great ships were so wildly streaking.

Instantly the scene changed as by magic. The foremost vessel dropped from the sky like a lead balloon. The others swung broadside toward Korad, bringing their main guns into play and returning fire. In the first few seconds entire buildings simply ceased to be, imploding in on themselves as the massive shells detonated in their interiors.

But in mere moments, most of those weapons fell silent as either the guns or their operators were put out of commission by small arms fire. The ships began to come about with the evident intention of bringing their opposite guns to bear. It had never been given John to see such deadly accuracy of aim as those green men displayed. It seemed as though a chunk of debris or a flailing little figure dropped from a craft at the explosion of each bullet, while the once dazzling pennants and banners dissolved in spurts of flame as the irresistible Thark projectiles mowed through them.

The answering fire fell all but silent, owing to the unexpected suddenness of the first volley, catching the ship's crews entirely unprepared. What the Tharks lacked in manors or gentility they more than made up for in sheer military discipline. It seems that each green warrior had certain objective points for his fire under relatively identical circumstances of warfare. A proportion of them, the best marksmen, directed their fire entirely upon the wireless finding and sighting apparatus of the big guns of an attacking naval force; another detail attended to disabling the smaller guns in the same way. Others picked off the gunners; still others aimed for the bridge and engines.

Minutes after the first volley, the three vessels of the pursuing fleet swung off in the direction from which they had first appeared. One of the craft limped perceptibly, barely under control of its crew. Their weapons inoperative, the ships focused all their energies upon escaping with a whole hide. The green men rushed up to the roofs of the buildings and followed the retreating armada with a continuous fusillade of deadly fire.

One by one, however, the ships managed to get out of range, soon dipping below the crests of the outlying hills until only the disabled craft remained in sight. Not a moving figure was visible inside or upon her. A fire had broken out somewhere within the craft and smoke billowed from many rents in its broken hull. Instantly the warriors ceased firing. The only vessels that remained a threat were gone and it was quite apparent that the derelict hulk was helpless.

The warriors rushed out upon the plain to despoil the wreckage before flame consumed it. From his vantage point in the window John could see bodies strewn about inside the crumpled metal shell. One figure actually dangled half in and half out of a shattered window, although he could not make out what manner of creatures they might be.

Warriors swarmed the vessel's sides and disappeared into its inner works, searching it from stem to stern. They examined the dead sailors for signs of life, tossing corpse after corpse outside the craft into a tangled pile. Presently a party of them appeared from below dragging a little figure among them. The creature was considerably less than half as tall as the green Martian warriors. From his balcony John could see that it walked erect upon two legs. Part of him wanted to believe this a person like himself, but chances were this was some new tribe of green men, smaller and more advanced than the Tharks.

They removed their prisoner, shoving it to the ground, and then commenced a systematic rifling of the vessel. Completing such an operation would require several hours, an impossibility considering the rising tide of flame and heat. A number of chariots were requisitioned to transport the loot, which consisted in arms, ammunition, silks, furs, jewels, strangely carved stone vessels, and a quantity of solid foods and liquids, including several casks of water, the first John had seen since his arrival upon Mars.

He unconsciously readjusted the strange armlet that had transported him through the ether of space, trying to shift it to a more comfortable position.

After absconding with the last armload of loot that they dared, the green men threw the plundered bodies back into the mounting blaze, there to be cremated alongside the ship they once served on. The sight was awe-inspiring as one contemplated this giant funeral pyre, the largest John had ever seen. It blazed higher and higher, sending black smoke through the lonely wastes of the Martian heavens; a derelict of death and destruction, typifying the life story of these strange and ferocious creatures into whose unfriendly hands fate had carried it.

Oddly depressed, the Earth man descended from the balcony to street level, striding out into the open, his mind in a tumult. The scene he had witnessed seemed to mark the defeat and annihilation of the forces of a kindred people rather than the routing of a similar horde of unfriendly creatures. And yet there was something in human nature that led a man always to hope. John had thought his hope died back in the War Between the States, but somewhere in the innermost recesses of his soul he felt a strange kinship toward these unknown foes. At that a mighty hope surged through him that the fleet would return in vengeance and demand a reckoning from the green warriors who so ruthlessly attacked it.

Close at heel, in his now accustomed place, followed Woola, the hound, and as John emerged upon the street Sola rushed up to him as though he had been the object of some search on her part. Not far away, the sound of bellowing commands shook the abandoned city. Lorquas Ptomel was too astute an old warrior to be caught upon the open plains with a caravan of chariots and children. He ordered the cavalcade's return to the plaza, delaying the homeward march for that day - possibly longer - owing to the fear of a return attack by the aircraft.

As Sola and her charge entered the plaza a great tumult caught his attention. Surrounding some invisible focal point, a large knot of Martians prodded, crowded, and pushed each other out of the way, jeering at someone or something he could not see. He nearly resolved to bound high enough to catch a view of it over the giants' heads when a gap in the mob revealed a sight which stopped him dead. The prisoner from the flying machine was being roughly dragged into a nearby building by a couple of green Martian females.

The sight which met his eyes was that of a slender, girlish figure, similar in every respect to the earthly women of his past life. She did not see him through the massing throng, but he got a good look at her face before she vanished again behind a solid wall of green bodies. She was a magnificent creature - a tall woman, slender and athletic, with long, rich, midnight hair, flawless complexion, and a mouth as ripe and red as a plumb. Large eyes, wide with fear, anger, and sorrow were ringed by delicate lashes. Her skin was of a light reddish copper color, against which the crimson glow of her cheeks shone with a strangely enhancing effect.

Her apparel was as nominal as his own, as little as could vouch safe her modesty. A leather harness, numerous highly wrought ornaments, and a few tatters of silken cape made up her outfit, nor could any apparel have made her more fine to look upon. What her clothing did hide it also succeeded in accentuating. And though she was filthy, covered in oil and soot, no amount of dirt could have hidden the beauty of her perfect and symmetrical figure.

The scene filled John with a surge of mingled hope, fear, and yet most dominant was a sense of relief and happiness. Seeing her distress, he tensed for a spring to come to her assistance, but then checked himself. The vision of Powel's poor, dead face ghosted before him. John had gone to his aid as well, but what did he have to show for it? And how could he know that intervention in this case might not make her plight worse?

His hesitation cost him his chance, but just as she was disappearing through the portal of the building, her prison, she turned and her gaze met John's. Her eyes opened wide in astonishment and she used her free hand to pantomime a little signal; a sign which he did not understand. Just a moment they gazed upon each other. Then the look of hope and renewed courage which had glorified her face faded into one of utter dejection, mingled with loathing and contempt.

For some obscure reason John felt ashamed. A crimson fire brought a glow to his cheeks. It made his ignorance of the Martian language and culture strike him more forcefully than ever. Obviously she had asked for something and he had not answered. Before he could even sign his apology she was dragged out of his sight into the depths of the deserted edifice.


End file.
